


Not Enough Postage

by ecarian



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-17
Updated: 2012-10-17
Packaged: 2017-11-16 12:19:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/539351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ecarian/pseuds/ecarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Derek doesn't know how to ask for things in bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Enough Postage

**Author's Note:**

> This story involves consensually rough sex (and then very vanilla sex)! But it also involves a failure to communicate sexual needs that has resulted in hurt feelings and misunderstandings! There is a very, very minor dub-con element because of said communication failure, but everything is very consensual. If that is not for you, please pass this story. And if I have misrepresented anything, please let me know!

"You okay?" Stiles asks through the neck hole of his Henley. He picks his arms out of the sleeves and then drops it on the floor, on top of a chem textbook, a lab assignment, and a number of dirty socks, no pairs and a collective rainbow between them.

"Yeah," Derek says, but he's fidgeting, tapping his fingers, jiggling his knee and staring at Stiles' screen saver. Stiles shimmies out of his pants and kicks his foot when it gets caught in the cuff. They go flying and hit his bookshelf, getting strung up between Oscar Wilde and a battered Call of Duty strategy guide.

"Sure," Stiles says. "You getting undressed or—"

"Yes," Derek says, and he's perfectly still for a minute before he rockets out of Stiles' desk chair and into an aggressive strip tease.

"We racing? Hey, guess what, I win.” Derek, shirt trapping his arms, looks at him, then down to where Stiles is toying with the band of his boxer-briefs, two fingers, fore and middle, dipping under the elastic and running across his hip, down into the taut bowl of his pelvis, pulling the fabric down in increments before dragging them off entirely. He adds an eyebrow waggle, free of charge, and Derek's eyes go a gratifying tinge of red. He breathes in hard through his nose and makes a soft, closed mouth sound at the back of his throat, like he can’t help it. He rips his shirt the rest of the way off and reaches for Stiles. "There you go."

"You drive me nuts," Derek says. He takes another deep breath, mouth open and hot against Stiles’ skin, smelling, tasting. Stiles showered before his noon class, but that was eleven hours and an afternoon run ago. By the feel of it, the tense set of his shoulders, the deep heaving expanse of his back and the shudder on the exhale, Derek can tell.

"You know it," Stiles says, tips his head back, shivers, a full body quake of a thing. Derek wraps himself around Stiles, hands hot and huge running across the cage of his ribs, down his back, like he can't touch fast enough. "C'mon, bed, my feet are cold."

Derek pulls down his pants and boxers, one long swoop, the stacked muscles in his back and arms stretching taut as he pulls off his boring black banker socks, throwing them in a pile with a pair of blue and little yellow duckies, a gag gift from Scott. Derek’s body is a relentless Olympic habit, an artist's impressionist curves. Stiles looks at him sometimes and doesn't know how he got so lucky.

Stiles skips past hospital folds and tugs the comforter right off the foot of the bed, straightens out his shitty Wal-mart sheets while Derek rattles around in the side table, rooting through Stiles' collection of novelty Star Wars pens and tangles of discarded receipts and subway stubs for lube and a condom.

"Here," Derek says. He shoves the bottle at Stiles and plants his hands on his hips. Then he drops them to his side like they're burning and abruptly sits down on the bed, looking a little anxious, eyes wide, his dick bouncing a little with the give of the mattress, pre-come beading the flushed red head. He looks back over his shoulder like he’s expecting someone.

"Okay lazy," Stiles says with a hesitant laugh. He flips off the light and walks over to the bed. He straddles Derek's lap and pops the cap, spreads some on his fingers before reaching back and sticking them in, his other arm draped over Derek's shoulder, carding through the baby curls on the back of his neck. He drops the tube onto the floor.

"Oh," Derek says, hands settling lightly on Stiles' hips, keeping him steady, tracing a constellation of moles up and down his thighs. He looks a little overwhelmed, frowning. Stiles doesn't know why; they've done all this before. It's still a little gratifying though.

"Yeah, oh," Stiles says, grinning around a different kind of, "oh," which makes Derek press his face into Stiles' sternum, breathing in the scent of his afternoon, listening to his heart with a pointed kind of attention. There's a joke about a dog and his bone in there somewhere.

When he's ready, he pulls out his fingers and wipes them on the sheet and nudges Derek's hand with his free knuckles, at the little silver square. "You gonna put that on?"

"Uh —" Derek says, distracted. He looks down at the condom and swallows. "Yeah," his voice sounds wrong.

"You okay?" Stiles says, brushing his thumb along the rough edge of Derek's jaw, the burn of his five o'clock shadow. He tries to catch Derek's eyes, but he's looking at Stiles’ shoulder, the wall, the floor, busy tearing open the packet and rolling it on with carefully still hands and the passive aggressive avoidance he’s never been good at if he could shove and growl and threaten instead.

"What?"

"Did something happen today?"

"No—uh, no," Derek says. He looks back up and abruptly leans in again to nip at his chest, which, hey, Stiles is all up for that, but Derek's freaking him out a bit. He lets Derek distract him for awhile, no harm in it, the soft press of his lips, the sudden prick of teeth, the wet lash his tongue, the warm comfort of familiarity easing them both before he pulls Derek’s head back.

"We don’t have to do this right now,” Stiles says. “You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

"You don't look it."

"Long day," Derek says, and then, hesitant, "You wanna—"

"What?"

"Never mind.” There's an abrupt shift in gravity, a swirl of vertigo, and then Stiles is on his back, a punched out laugh on his lips. Derek's hands run up his thighs and Stiles turns onto his stomach, habit. Derek is still for a moment, hands and body both, then he shores up against Stiles' back, picking up his hips and arranging him around, nuzzling his face into valley between Stiles' shoulder blades as he pushes up into him, one long, smooth roll of the hips, getting as close as he can with a quiet kind of desperation. He slaps Stiles' ass, once, a bright flash of heat, and then digs his fingers in, the faint suggestion of claws. Stiles groans, happy, wrecked, and scrabbles at the sheets, battens down for the long haul.

After, Derek is quiet, staring at the ceiling. Stiles is still shaking, curled into Derek’s side and heaving, grounding himself with a splayed hand on Derek’s sweaty flank and absently wondering how it can still feel this good, better. His skin feels too hot and too small and too raw and perfectly, wonderfully languorous; happily sated all at once. You'd think they'd hit a plateau at some point, some kind of acceleration fatigue; instead it feels like exponential growth, some kind of high impact intensity that'll rip them apart, a potassium flare, burn them up and make them grateful for it.

"I have to go," Derek says, voice small. Stiles looks up at his face, but he is determinedly staring at the glow-in-the-dark lunar cycle stickers on the roof, the constellations, Cassiopeia, Canis Major.

"Okay," Stiles says, disappointed. He was hoping for morning sex. There’s this great little breakfast place near campus, tissue paper thin crepes and Canadian bacon and fierce French servers. Derek disentangles from Stiles and sits on the edge of the bed for a while, head hanging. Stiles gets up on an elbow and reaches for him, but by then Derek's getting to his feet, one smooth transition, sitting to standing, cast in harsh florescence from the street lamp. They forgot to pull the blinds.

When Derek is dressed, he kneels back down on the bed and tilts Stiles' face up, kisses him soft and closed mouth, a little absent.

"Hey," Stiles says when Derek's at the door. Derek looks back and Stiles chickens out. "Don’t get into trouble, call me later?"

"Yeah," Derek says, and the corner of his mouth twitches north. "You too."

As soon as the door is closed, Stiles flops back on the bed. He pulls his pillow over his face, but it smells like Derek's hair gel, and makes him inexplicably angry. He throws it on the floor and pulls up the comforter into a cocoon and wonders what the hell.

 

“Yes—I, yes,” Derek says, the first time they have sex. It’s mostly an accident, tripping through the sorts of 80s rom-com tropes Stiles loves in solitude and never when it applies to his actual real life. Derek’s the brand of high grade lighter fluid Stiles loves to burn himself up with, so by the time he finishes up pretending to be Derek’s hysterical harpy boyfriend to save him from a sex demon, he’s furious, gnashing his teeth over the smoking remains of their banishing ritual, getting up into his face, snarling,  _What were you thinking?_  and  _you need backup for a reason_ because he could, because he was flush with a delicious kind of fury and Derek was there and Derek was a rock and Derek could take it.

How they got from there to bed isn’t much of a mystery. That it still happens confuses him a little.

"So I think Derek isn't sexually attracted to me anymore," Stiles says, contemplatively the next day. He’s not cheating; he doesn’t trust anyone enough for that. He wonders if this is come inexplicable plan to get Stiles to break up with him. He should know better; Stiles is too vindictive to let that happen. “Do werewolves have a sex dominance thing?”

Kitty corner to him, Scott chokes on his mouthful of yam fries and spits it all across the red lycra booth seat opposite. After Stiles surrenders his coke for his recovery, he wheezes, “You did that on  _purpose_."

“Sure,” Stiles says. It’s kind of true.

“Uh—no,” Scott says. “I mean, I can’t speak for—“ 

“Right,” Stiles says.

“Is something wrong?” Scott asks, dropping his voice low, confidential. Stiles shouldn't have brought this up now, he realizes, not in the middle of a family restaurant, a snow-pile of textbooks and notebooks and black and blue razed loose-leaf strewn across the table, mapping out all the ways Scott's panicking about his vet midterm, the diagrams he's pinning with sticky rainbow fletched arrows. Stiles' own notebook is open to a half page of doodles and a blank slate of a mythology essay he's trying not to turn into an autobiography, a Greek tragedy.

“I—no,” Stiles says. Scott doesn’t look convinced. Stiles taps out the trumpet line of a cavalry charge, realizes he only likes talking about sex when he’s either not having it, or not failing at it and adds, “Maybe.”

“Is he,” Scott says, sounding angry. He’s working himself up to something incandescent. “Hurting you?”

“What, no,” Stiles says. “Holy shit, Scott.”

“I’ll kill him,” Scott promises.

“Oh my god, no,” Stiles says, waves his arms a little. “Seriously, no that’s not it. It’s getting a bit samey in the sack and I’m a little worried about it.”

“Oh,” Scott says, “What, is he not—like, returning the favour?”

“Kind of the opposite,” Stiles mutters, and claws at his face.

Derek always gets him off, with his mouth or his hand or his fingers in his ass. He’s conscientious and persistent and he never leaves Stiles feeling anything but wrecked. Derek gets Stiles off and then himself and everyone has a good time, except Stiles doesn’t really get to touch Derek, or blow him, and there’s not enough kissing and he doesn’t stay the night anymore.  He knows he should be grateful for all the attention, but he likes reciprocation and it just reminds him that Derek probably isn’t attracted to him anymore and just sticking around out of pity or something and it just pisses him right off.

“Have you talked to him about it?” Lydia says on Wednesday over the frothing crown of her skinny quad cappuccino. Stiles, who had been bitching about his stats professor and his stats homework and how much he hates, hates, hates stats, says, “I don’t I want to tell my professor about my special feelings.”

“No, Derek, your abysmal sex life,” she explains.

“Oh my Jesus Christ,” Stiles says, and doesn’t really know why he’s surprised.

“Allison told me,” Lydia says.

“Right,” Stiles says.

“She was worried,” she explains airily.

“Please, stop,” Stiles says.

Lydia, who is exquisitely mean to him on a good day and borderline apathetic on a bad one, just rolls her precisely smudged eyes and says, "Out of the humans in this group who has the most experience dealing with asshole werewolves?"

“Me,” Stiles says, feelingly. “I do.”

“In the sack,” she says, unrelenting.

“Allison.”

She ignores him. “Whatever. Just. Werewolves are very sensitive to body language.”

“You are super vague and unhelpful and all of this conversation is dumb,” Stiles says, snotty. There’s a visible moment where she gives up on him, sips her coffee, says, “Fine,” and, “You calculated that confidence interval wrong.”

"Just—Derek was born a beta," she says finally, after they discover that it’s not the confidence interval but a whole populations’ worth of deviance he’s forgotten about and he flips his ever loving shit. She nurses her coffee. “And he’s never been human.”

"Right," Stiles says, and chews on his eraser.

 

Stiles likes rough sex. He likes it when it burns. He likes biting. He likes being slapped and when he gets finger bruises pushed into his hips, his thighs, hot little medallions he can press remind himself—that are his and no one else's. He grew out his hair as a handhold. He stole a pair of his Dad's handcuffs to success-orize. He likes getting fucked. He likes that  _a lot_. He likes the attention. He likes that people go hard and trust he knows his limits. He likes that he can say now:  _This is the hurt I want_.

Derek has big hands that fit neat around Stiles' hips. He has sharp teeth. Derek uses his body like a tool. He uses his weight to hold Stiles down and make him take it and his claws to scratch Stiles up. Derek is as rough as Stiles wants him to be and as harsh as Stiles needs him to be and he thought that was enough, he thought they were content.

Derek’s spent so long trying to be a monster that maybe they both forget that he isn’t.

 

It’s not really dating except for how they don’t see anyone else, and Stiles always has something to text him about, stupid shit about polar bears and how bee combs are made and he hasn’t fed his neopets in like a seven years and what the holy Christ is with the file sharing at this school, and how Derek will text him back and say  _I got chased by a grizzly once_  and bring him a peanut butter and honey sandwich and a Klondike bar. They have a standing weekend appointment, come over so I can be around you, we can order something, have sex. It’s easier than Stiles thought it would be. Maybe he should have taken that as a sign.

So on Saturday Stiles takes a shower and shaves. He cleans his room. He vacuums and does his laundry. He lights a candle. He dusts. He throws out his trash and re-bags the bin. He's just finished sheeting the bed and putting away the last of his shirts when the door creaks open.

He shoves the rest of his socks in the drawer, hangs the last shirt, and goes still. Okay, they’re going to talk about this. They’re going to fix this. Stiles has had a bunch of revolving door misters and misses, and one steady boyfriend and one steady girlfriend. They both liked how pink he got when they slapped him and they both loved to fuck him and they both broke up with him because they were afraid of his nightmares and how clingy he was and maybe how far he’d go, how much he felt. It’s always been  _Can I do this_  and  _What about that_  and the answers always been  _yes_ ; he likes sex and he likes when it happens to him and it’s never really gone anywhere where he’s had to say  _too much_.  

He doesn’t have any practice with this, but then Stiles rarely has any kind of experience with anything so why should that matter.

Derek heels the door closed and toes off his boots, folds his jacket over the back of Stiles’ Ikea desk chair. There’s a crinkle of a grocery bag, and he puts something in the mini-fridge. Then, predictably, Derek crowds up against his back, his hands find Stiles' hips. He noses at Stiles' neck. Stiles takes a deep breath, tells himself, now, now, okay now, and if there’s a stop, just a trailing beat of hesitation in the friction burn of Derek’s stubble, they both ignore it. Stiles chickens out.

“Hey,” he says, and tilts his neck, gives it up.

“You were out of milk,” Derek says, and spreads his hands out on Stiles’ belly.

It’s good, great really. Derek’s perfect because he’s always been perfect at this, and Stiles’ whole body feels hot and quivery, only Allison left a mirror here, last time she came to visit. It’s square and a little girly, with acid wash flowers in the corner. Stiles windexed it when he was cleaning, which is the only reason it’s on the nightstand, and he’s on his belly, which is the only reason he sees it. He looks and there’s Derek’s face. He’s making noise, sure, a hot set of skipping breaths, and his hands are greedy, but his expression is dull, distracted. He doesn’t look like he’s enjoying himself at all.

“Okay, stop,” Stiles says. Derek meets his eyes in the mirror and then does at once. He slips out of Stiles with a wet suck of noise. He sits back on his heels looking guilty. Stiles flips over and scoots back against the headboard. He takes a deep breath, no avoiding it now.

“Are you breaking up with me?” he asks, voice small.

“What—no,” Derek says, but his expression crumbles a bit, unhappy.

“You obviously aren’t enjoying yourself,” Stiles snaps.

“Yes, I am,” Derek argues.

“You!” Stiles starts. He doesn’t know where to go from there that doesn’t end with hurt. “Am I making you do something—”

“No,” Derek says, but he doesn’t sound very convincing. “I mean—not, no.”

“You looked like I was making you do hard labour,” he says, going for brevity. Derek doesn’t even rise to it, just looks miserable, like he’s being blamed for more people dying.

“No. No—I just,” He clamps down on that like he’s breaking a promise. “I mean—I want,” he looks lost. He takes a deep, frustrated breath and stares at the wall back over his shoulder, avoiding Stiles’ eyes, baring his neck. Stiles sees that most on Scott and Isaac, sometimes Erica, rarely on Boyd and almost never with Derek.

“Oh,” he says, realizing. Derek tenses. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I did,” Derek grumbles.

“‘You wanna?’” Stiles quotes, thinking back to last week, before. He crawls across the bed until his knees are up against Derek’s thigh. “Wanna grab a bite to eat? Rob a bank? I need a bit more context to parse lube thrown at my face.”

“Fine, whatever,” Derek says. He starts to get up. Stiles panics and lunges forward and bites Derek’s neck, who makes a soft, involuntary sound in the back of his throat and stops.  _With my teeth_ , is the familiar echo.

When he’s sure Derek’s not going to get huffy and book it, Stiles lets go. There are pretty pink teeth marks dotting his skin. Contrary to his whole being, Stiles sits there in silence until Derek tricks himself into saying, “It’s fine.”

“What’s fine?” Stiles says. Derek's pulse rabbits against his lips. “Explain it to me.”

“You don’t want—I get it,” Derek says, “The teeth freak you out. It’s fine.”

Stiles has lost the train of this conversation entirely. “I thought we were talking about fucking you.”

“You like it when I bite but,” Derek shrugs. Stiles waits him out until his gets frustrated with all the blanks Stiles isn’t filling, and says, “You don’t like to kiss me.”

“What,” Stiles says.

“Because of my—It doesn’t matter,” Derek says. “Can we—are we doing this or—I have work.”

“Oh no,” Stiles says, “No, no, no. You don’t like kissing  _me_.”

Derek looks unhappy and out of his element and just a little bit angry. “You always turn away, Stiles, I can fucking _parse_ that.”

“You always put me there! Look, I thought—” Stiles starts. “I’m not a werewolf. I can get the big things like the neck thing when it’s really obvious. But I thought you just liked that. I thought it was a dominance thing you needed.”

“Oh,” Derek says.

“So you’ve been resenting me this whole time because I’ve missed a whole bunch of wolf vibes and it’s been making you unhappy,” Stiles summarizes.

“I wasn’t—” Derek winces. He’s still not looking at Stiles, and so fucking uncomfortable it hurts to look at him. “I didn’t want to—if you didn’t. I know it’s asking a lot and—and I hurt you a lot,” he says in a rush, like he doesn’t want to talk about it. Jesus, if his dad knew what a terrible job he’s doing with this, he’d rip Stiles’ face right off.

“I like it when you do that,” Stiles says, at once, a little horrified, “I love that. I mean—you trust me to say stop, right. And it feels really good. Do you—” he swallows. Derek is hunched over, head in his hands, elbows on his knees, radiating discomfort so hard Stiles can feel it. “Do you hate it?”

“No,” Derek admits, after awhile, like he’s ashamed. Derek has slapped him around, open handed, and bit him, tied him up and yanked his hair, he’s held him down by the wrists, said,  _Look at you, look at what I’m going to do to you_  and fucked him so hard he couldn’t walk, not really, and then only to class where he couldn’t concentrate on dynamic memory allocation when he could be thinking about how shivery and warm and good he felt instead.

Stiles has only ever been with people with more experience than him, who knew how to hurt and how to talk about it and how to find limits and how to avoid them. They have a safeword and Stiles has only ever used it once or twice when he was stressed out and distracted and didn’t want to deal with tenderness the next day, let’s do something else, watch a movie, play a game.  _Safe, sane and consensual_ , his dad would tell him. Derek’s never used it and Stiles wonders how many limits trampled not paying attention, and then feels like he’s going to barf.

Derek’s gone soft, in the resulting silence. He slides off the condom, knots it and tosses it in the trashcan across the room without looking. He doesn’t look like he’s going to get up though so Stiles says, “Do you like it at all?” choking on it a little.

“Not all the time,” Derek mumbles.

“Okay,” Stiles says, he can work with that. “Do you like it a little?” Derek hesitates, jerks his head, once, a sharp assent. “Do you want to try something else now?” It takes a bit, but Derek nods, a little hesitant but there. Stiles stands up on his knees so he’s taller. He cups Derek’s jaw in both hands and turns his head up.

His lips are soft and his stubble is scratchy. He’s mostly passive and lets Stiles do what he wants, lick at his lips, his teeth, coax his tongue into participation, easy and gentle. Stiles avoids sliding into Derek’s lap and instead tugs his face along so he follows Stiles up to the head of the bed. “Back or—?”

“I—back,” Derek says, and rolls over. Stiles crawls over him to get between his legs. They kiss for a while. It’s nice to just do that, no expectations. Derek’s mouth tastes like black coffee and the Werther’s caramel he tried to cover it up with, and his tongue is hot and slick. It takes him a while, he’s rigid and a little uncomfortable and insidiously contrary when he wants to be, but he starts melting into it. He spreads both hands out on Stiles’ back.

Stiles is still young enough that he’s pretty much hard from the get go, but Derek is so obviously out of his depth, mortified and embarrassed, that he’s still working on it when Stiles goes for the condoms. His hands are trembling a little so he snaps the latex by accident tugging it on.

“Ow, Jesus,” Stiles says, waves his hands, “Ow, ow, ow, shit don’t laugh. Oh my god, this might not be going anywhere at all.” Derek looks reluctantly amused, but he’s not smiling. Stiles rummages through the dunescape of the twisted sheets for the lube. He wets his fingers and tosses the bottle and shimmies up on his knees, tugs Derek’s thighs up and out so his ass is right up against Stiles’ pelvis, knuckles along his crack, tests at his hole with the pad of a finger.

“I can’t do this if you’re not relaxed,” Stiles admits, massaging gently.

“Fine—” Derek says. He gets up on his elbows, his whole body tenses. He looks resigned. “You know what? Forget it—”

“Hey, no,” Stiles says, suddenly anxious. He pushes down on Derek’s belly with the palm of his free hand. It quivers. “It just takes a little work. It’s fine. I just—I want you to feel good. I have been a spectacularly shitty—you make me feel great, like, all the time and I’m pretty much scum for not realizing it and…”

“It’s not all bad,” Derek admits, and he’s smiling, just a little, and he relaxes, just enough, and Stiles’ finger slips in, just the tip.

“Oh, sure, kick me when I’m down, that’ll get you what you want,” Stiles says, a little hoarse, back on less shaky ground. His heart is pounding, he’s sweating again, shaking a little. He’s only ever thought about this in hypotheticals, like a celebrity, or a fictional character. It’s all starting to get to him,  _hey, this is happening don’t screw it up_. And then all at once he's shivery with it, breathing hard through his nose.

He works that finger in until Derek’s moving with him, and he gets two others by being honest, “You’re so—you’re amazing. I don’t know why you’re with me sometimes and I don’t deserve you obviously, like super obviously now, but you’re just—wow, I’m just really lucky.”

“You don’t have to—” Derek says. His ears are bright pink.  “I don’t need commentary.”

“Do you want me to stop?”

“I—” Derek says, and goes silent.

“I want to,” Stiles says, because he does, and Derek shudders and he’s loose enough that Stiles does a quick pass on his dick and then nudges in, little bits at a time. “I like it, you feel good already, and I’m going to be inside you and that sounds amazing. And you totally knew I’m a talker like, you totally did, so—god, when I look at you I can’t even think sometimes—”

“Yes, okay,” Derek says, going for grumpy,  _get on with it_. He ends up face-planting into flustered. His thighs are trembling. He can run ten miles, full sprint like it’s nothing, a bit of sweat, not even winded. He sounds like he’s there’s no air in the room, now, deep heaving breaths, panting out every second one like it hurts, and it’s easy, so easy, to slide right up inside where he’s slick and hot, where he’s snug against Derek’s ass, his thighs, his feet pressing down on Stiles’ calves, heels tucked up to the backs of Stiles’ knees. Stiles palms his hip divots, and sets to work, easy and slow and gentle.

“Good?” Stiles asks. 

“Can you—” Derek says. He digs his head back against the pillow. His whole face has gone a reluctant red. “Go faster.”

“‘Kay,” Stiles says, and does. Derek visibly fights not show how it feels, stone-faced and absent, but Stiles knows Derek always struggles with what feels good, at first, and just keeps up, steady and persistent until Derek’s eyelids droop, he turns into the trembling bicep of the arm curled around his head, and breathes these punched out little  _nnh, nnh, nnh_  sounds like it costs him. Stiles hefts one of Derek’s thighs into the crook of his arm and then really goes to town.

It doesn’t take long, Stiles isn’t sixteen but this is new for him too, and when he comes it hurts. He goes a bit blind and he makes stupid sounds, and his face is probably dumb looking, but whatever, he feels amazing. All that really matters is he can still see Derek’s face, that he’s still hard enough to fuck him and coordinated enough to time it with his hand on Derek’s dick. Stiles watches him break apart, make stupid, wonderful sounds and come all over his stomach, his sternum, on one aggressive eyebrow.

After, Stiles slips out and knots the condom, doesn’t have the coordination to throw it and stumbles over on wobbly Bambi legs to get it in the trash. He goes to the bathroom and gets a hot cloth, and comes back to wipe them both off, his dick, Derek’s, Derek’s torso, between his legs. Derek’s out, stone cold, so he leaves the little bit in Derek’s eyebrow because that shit’s hilarious, and then he pulls up the comforter, and tucks in against Derek’s side.

“I’ve never—done that. Before,” Derek confesses groggily, not as asleep as Stiles thought, or just waking up. Stiles looks at him, incredulous.

“What,” Stiles says. Derek doesn’t say anything else, and his eyes are pointedly closed. “Like, never ever with another person or never ever at all not even yourself, oh my god.”

“People,” Derek says, reluctantly.

“Okay,” Stiles sighs. He’s going to think about the resulting image later, and then maybe make Derek show him. He imagines Derek alone being super resentful about how good it felt and the hilarity of it mostly distracts him from the not-exactly-a-realization that Derek is an  _enormously ridiculous person._  “Later, when I am not exhausted and have bones and a brain and—we are going to talk about what you do and do no want and what you have and have not done because I should have in the beginning and—”

“Okay,” Derek says.

“You can ask for things,” Stiles says hesitantly. “I want—that, I want to do that too. And you can say, if you don’t like—what I want. It’s no biggie.”

“Okay.”

“And—you should come over more,” Stiles says, a little hesitant. “We should—do stuff. Go out. More. Like outside. In public.”

“It’s fine,” Derek says. “You don’t have to.”

“Yes, I do,” Stiles says, insistent. Derek turns his face into the pillow. His ears are red again.

“Yes—okay,” Derek says.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Also [here](http://ecarian.tumblr.com/post/33761873246/not-enough-postage) on tumblr! This was inspired by/is a homage to/wants to be like Helenish's--everything really--fic Selfish. Go read that too. It's better.


End file.
